This is Our Life
by Inherently Flawed
Summary: This is our life. These are the people we encounter. These are the people we love. These are the people we lost. This is where it ends.


**Author**: Inherently Flawed

**Rating**: Eh…T?

**Disclaimer**: I would never dare to take claim for characters and plot lines so amazing as those of Rent. Jonathan Larson should be deified.

**Notes**: There is no particular timeframe for this except post-Rent. I skip around a lot, don't worry too much about when stuff is taking place. If people appear or disappear, that's why, though. These are just supposed to be memories, sort of, I guess. The bits at the beginning and end of each section are just experiments in writing style – partly thoughts, sometimes dialogue expressed without quotes. Sorry if that's confusing. So, the last part went on way longer than it was meant to, sorry about that also, I don't like it so much now, but I needed more progression for that part.

If you have an idea or suggestion that could make the story better, please share it. If you don't like it, kindly keep that to yourself.

**Also**, the ending is not terribly happy, but the rest is really un-unhappy… dear lord, would you believe that English is the only class I'm doing well in? The point is, don't give up on it just because the ending is sort of sad.

**

* * *

**

**This is our life.**

Bright sun. Very bright sun. Up, out of bed. Roger, wake up. It's late, you can't just lie around in bed all day…Because I said so. You need to eat breakfast.

Go away! Bright sun, bad. It's not late, late is when the sun is down. Why not?… That's a dumb reason. Oh, we have food?

* * *

"Take your AZT, Rog." 

"You know, if my mother had been half as attentive as you are, I probably wouldn't have ended up in New York with no food or money. Interesting, isn't it?"

I shake my head. "Not as interesting as my coffee. Hush up and eat your cereal."

"Cap'n Crunch has ceased to be cereal, as that implies more of a breakfast item."  
"It is breakfast, Roger."

"Yes, but we eat it for every other meal, too."

"…Take your AZT."

* * *

"Mark, honey, it's mom – again." 

"You know, if you'd pick up the phone every few weeks, she wouldn't call nearly as often," Roger tries to point out.

"But that would entail a conversation. A conversation with my _mother_, of all people. My mother, whom you've met, and taught me 'If you ignore them, they'll leave you alone.' I keep trying…"

"Marky, we're worried about you, honey! I just wish that if you insist on this silly screening that you'd occasionally call back…"

"Okay, how's this: you try a different approach, since that one so obviously doesn't work. Pick up the phone, talk to her, and then I'll let you drag me out of the house today, with minimal whining even."

"Honestly, honey, how do you expect me to get a good night's sleep-"

"I don't care how you sleep!"

"-when I don't know if my baby is cold or hungry or wearing clean clothes or brushing his teeth… all that money on orthodontics for you, I bet it's all just going to waste-"

"Though you do turn exciting shades of purple when she calls…"

"Hi, mom." Anything to wipe that smirk of Roger's face. I glare at him. "Yeah, mom, I'm doing okay, I actually just got in from filming. Oh, you know, New York stuff. Yeah, sure, Central Park. Like that. Roger's fine, he's doing really good. Collins, too. He's teaching right now. Maureen? Well… She's Maureen. Mom, I'm fine. I'm brushing my teeth, I promise."

"I'll vouch for that!" I glare at Roger again.

"Nothing, mom, it's just this stray that followed us home, we haven't gotten rid of him yet," I say, staring straight at Roger while he makes faces. "Don't worry, I won't catch anything, I've been very careful not to let him bite me."

"Not true! He makes really nice noises when I bite…"

"Anyway mom, I've really got to get going. Nice talking to you, too. Bye!" Moving quickly from the phone towards Roger at the table, I pause by the couch to grab a pillow. I then proceed to beat Roger over the head with said pillow. Being bigger than me, he finally manages to wrest the pillow from my grasp and hold me still long enough to steal a kiss. Then I tell him to get dressed. It's like caring for a small child sometimes.

* * *

If I go to hell when I die, Musetta's Waltz will be playing. Roger can't seem to focus on any one song for more than a few minutes at a time, and when he gets distracted he reverts back to the Waltz. He's been at it for an hour now, and while I love listening to him play, I'm about to toss his guitar out the window. Of course, I couldn't ever actually do that to him, but a boy can dream, right?

* * *

The sultry air of the New York summer has sapped all will to move, speak or do anything more than breathe. Even that is kept minimal. We are shirtless and laying out on the fire escape, wiped from a morning of wandering around the city in this heat. Desperate to catch the slightest breeze that may come, we assumed this position around two this afternoon. It is now five and we've yet to find the desire to move. We have been talking lazily about Life, the Universe and Everything, life, the universe, and everything. 

I know that in two months it will begin to get cold and we will long for days like this as we pile every blanket we own on one bed and huddle together, playing rock, paper, scissors to decide who leaves to get food. Roger's idea. If it were up to me, I wouldn't let him out it the cold at all, but he's very insistent. And annoying. From somewhere within the loft I hear Roger's beeper going off.

"Take your AZT."

* * *

I'm going to kill the sun. Goddamn fucking sun, always waking me up! Out of bed. Roger, wake up… 

Don't wanna. Bed is comfy. I'm comfy, you're comfy, I don't see the problem…

**

* * *

These are the p****eople we encounter.**

Head up. Chest up. Walk quickly. No, I don't have a light, sorry man. Don't stop moving. Look menacing.

Close to Roger. Look, he's not scrawny! He'll kick your asses. Yeah, I'm with him… No, sorry, me neither. Keep walking.

* * *

"Quit flirting with me, John." 

"One of these days, Mark, I will get through to you."

"Quite flirting with him, John."

"Oh, hey Roger. So, what can I get you boys today?" John winks none-too-subtly at Mark as he takes our orders.

"Mark, if you change your mind, you always know where to find me."

He's harmless, amusing even. I personally enjoy watching Mark turn that unique shade of maroon when someone flirts with him. As long as I know he'll be coming home with me, I have learned to relax about things like that. Possessiveness has never really done me any good in the past, anyway. Mark's meal arrives with a heart carved from a radish on the side of the plate. We laugh.

* * *

"Hey, Elton. How's the sculpture coming along?" Mark stops to chat with a man a few blocks from the Life. Elton always likes to show off his tower'o'bikes, as it is known in my mind. It really is quite impressive; it's almost reached the top of the light post. I wonder what he'll do when he's done. Elton is off, rambling happily to Mark's camera about how he got his latest addition all the way up top. Apparently a complex process, seeing how long we've been standing here. But it makes Mark happy, and it makes Elton happy, so who am I to complain, really? I pass the time by striking up a conversation with Addie, an older woman whose demeanor reminds me strongly of my sister. 

Soon Addie and I are discussing the finer points of crowd surfing, an earth-shattering conversation forever preserved by Mark's Damn Camera, as I affectionately refer to it. Addie was quite the adventurer when she was younger, in the 60's and 70's, hence her in-depth knowledge of crowd surfing and rock bands. She surfed her way up to and climbed on to a stage with Jimi Hendrix once. New York has the coolest people.

* * *

Mark and I are yanked by our elbows inside a stall near an alleyway. I yell in protest but quiet when I realize the guy just wants to sell us something. We have no money, but he's so earnest, and Mark is once again bringing out the Damn Camera, so I allow him to talk me up. He is offering scarves, jackets and mittens to ward off the New York chill. I'm a bit curious as to where he scrounged up his mangy collection of merchandise, though I don't ask. Some things are better left unknown. And un-thought about. The pair of gloves he is holding out to me have more holes than fabric and look like they'd fit Mark's nephew, maybe, but certainly not me. 

Panning the Damn Camera around the stall, Mark flips through the racks while I talk to the man. I hear a quiet but distressed sound from him and go to look at what he's found. I'm beginning to get a picture of where this guy gets his goods from – there is a tan jacket with a large rip in the side, most likely from a knife. Surrounding the tear is the remnants of a bad attempt to remove a bloodstain. I take that as our cue to leave, quickly.

* * *

Oh fuck, not him. No, bad, drugs bad, you bad. Stay away! If I never see him again it'll be too soon. Fuck off, man! You know I'm clean now. Mark? Mark, I'm okay… right? 

Goddamn dealer is lurking around every fucking corner, I swear. There's seven of him, must be. Roger, it's okay. Calloused hand in mine. Squeeze. I'm here. You're okay. Keep walking.

**

* * *

T****hese are the people we love.**

He's so warm. Gentle, when need be. Not always. So…not Maureen. So what I need. Kiss on the cheek, kiss on the mouth. I love you… Play me a song.

He's so skinny, but so soft. Comfortable. Adorable. Best sex ever, too. Come here. Kiss away the blush, kiss away the worried protest. Love you, too. Anything for you, Mark.

* * *

"Who is this?" 

"That's my little sister. Sarah."

"I'll trade you, her for Cindy."

"Hell no! With Cindy come Cindy's kids. I'm not crazy, despite popular opinion."

I laugh at him. I've seen this picture before, I just always forget to ask. I can tell by his reaction that he misses her. He puts the picture carefully back in the drawer I got it from.

"She's the one who lent me the money to get to New York. She babysat all the time, had tons of cash stored up. Gave it all to me, so I could live my dream. I should call her…"

* * *

"So what kind of trouble have you crackers been getting into while I was away?" 

"Eh." I shrug. "Trouble's less fun without you here, Collins."

"Especially because you're the one who provides the alcohol."

"Well, let's see what we can do to liven this joint up." Roger perks up at the mention of 'joint' and I laugh at him. I have a feeling that tonight would be a really good night to have my camera, for Drunk Roger and Drunk Collins are quite a combination. Of course, that necessitates me being sober enough to hold the camera straight. As Collins pulls out the Stoli, I know that there will be no footage tonight, only a headache tomorrow, and I smile.

When we wake up in the morning, it is to Maureen's humming and Joanne's softened voice. Wishing I had my glasses to clear the blurriness, I squint at my surroundings, trying to figure out what made me lucky enough to have Maureen in my apartment when I'm not even awake. Joanne sees me stirring and comes over with aspirin and water.

"You boys had quite a time, didn't you?" She speaks softly, but starts laughing when I ask where my glasses are. "You're wearing them, Mark."

"Oh." I pull them off my face and rub my eyes, then clean the lenses. "Oh! Hi. What's going on?"

"Well, we _were_ going to hang out with you boys today, but we got here and found you like this." 'This' being me on the couch, Roger on a chair with his feet over the back and his head halfway off the seat, and Collins draped across the coffee table. I laugh, then groan, then try to burrow into the couch cushions. Joanne pushes the glass of water at me, not letting up until I've finished the whole thing. Maureen is amusing herself by toying with Roger. She is tickling him lightly and pulling away before he can smack her. Finally Roger manages to mumble a response to her tormenting.

"What was that, Roger?" Maureen is disgustingly perky. I think she's having too much fun.

"Go the fuck away!" The volume of his own voice startles him to the point of losing his precarious position on the chair and sliding to the floor, eliciting more curses and more groans. He finally gives up and covers his ears to drown out our laughter.

Collins is awakened by our giggling and, the bastard, stands up like he hadn't downed over half a bottle of Stoli last night. Wait, maybe that was me… My head hurts.

* * *

We are stiff from the long subway ride as we emerge into the sunlight once again. Roger's hand is in mine and Collins's arm is slung around his shoulders as we make our way for three blocks to St. Maria's, where Mimi waits for us. We try to get up here at least once a week, but it's hard. Not finding the time, but finding the willpower. Seeing so many people going through withdrawal, the suffering, the sweating, the shaking, the vomiting. It's scary, and it's a painful reminder of our pasts. The Withdrawal Period sucked for all of us, really, not just Roger. But we do it anyway, because Mimi needs us. 

"Hey, Meems. How are you holding up?" Roger is first. He holds her hand across the table, looks worriedly at her until she replies.

"It sucks. It sucks as much as you said it would, probably more. I go through two sets of sheets a day, just soaking them through with this horrible sweat. I vomited so much that they had to feed me through a tube for a few days because my throat was so raw. Every night I curse you and Benny and all of your damn goodwill and helpfulness and I want a hit more than anything in the world."

Roger smiles. This is the answer he wants to hear. Anything less, a 'Fine' or 'Okay' would not have sufficed. Roger won't let her kid herself about this, he never did. Addiction is serious shit, and it does suck, and there's not point in trying to hide that, especially not from someone who already experienced it. "Good," he tells her. "That means the worst part will be over in another day or two. You're going to make it, Mimi."

The doctors and nurses have been telling her that the worst is almost over for a few days now. She only believes it from Roger.

I am next, and we chat for a while. She's gotten all of her anger and unpleasantness out on Roger, and we talk lightly about good things. She got to take a walk outside this morning and saw the first bits of spring coming in. I told her I'd bring her flowers next time I come, to brighten up her room, which she says is horribly dull.

Collins and her talk for a while, also, about something philosophical. He offers her the book he's brought for her, but she says she's already read it. He suggests another title for next time, and she smiles widely.

Soon, another month or so, she will be out of here, released unofficially into our care. She will move in with us, so we can take care of her and keep an eye on her. Until then, we will trek up here every week and wade through the sea of junkies to visit our lovely, shining dancer.

* * *

Never seen a holiday dinner table look like this. But that's okay, as long as it's food. He never eats enough. All of us, six smiles around an eclectic feast. What are you thankful for, Mimi? 'What do you think,' such sarcasm, Meems! That almost hurts! 

Life, under the circumstances, couldn't be better. Our dancer is back, we have food, we are all smiles and laughs. Never has such a family seen such a Thanksgiving. Mark's hand in mine, his in Collins, Maureen, Joanne, Mimi, me, we join, and we thank.

**

* * *

These are the people we lost. **

Gotta hate April 7th. Hate Roger crying. So wrong, Roger crying. 'Morning, Rog. Feel better? It's okay, Rog. I miss her too. It's okay.

Damn birthdays. Should hate her. Don't. Should, though. Have to get out of bed. Do something else. Yeah. Eyes feel dry, from… this. Eyes aren't dry anymore, cheeks wet. Sorry, Mark.

* * *

Angel loved all holidays. She damn near started making them up just to have an excuse to decorate and celebrate. I mean, sure, why not? It's not like we had a lifetime of Christmahanuakwanzas and birthdays ahead of us, so there's no real reason not to celebrate when you can, right? That was Angel's take, anyway. I hadn't seen it that way, so much; I spent my time mourning the fact that I had so little time left. Okay, so I'm not the brightest crayon in the box sometimes, so sue me. Well, don't, because it wouldn't do you any good since I'm broke. But that's not the point. Angel made life happier. She found the most obscure holidays, a new one every week practically. Sometimes she claimed a 'Just Because' holiday, when she needed more time to come up with a believable one. 

We still celebrate some of her holidays, because…well, it's fun to have a reason to party and get drunk every few weeks. I think it would do the world good if more people celebrate Pig Day and No Pants Day. Man, that one was fun. I've never enjoyed tormenting Mark more than on that day. Collins and I really had a time of that one. Pig Day was cool too, Mark got some hilarious shots of Angel with a pig snout on.

We decided that Angel is living a constant holiday up there, but just in case, we still celebrate her holidays down here too. On the big ones, we all go and decorate the graveyard, putting ornaments in the trees on Christmas and putting a menorah on her headstone. Don't go telling me that's disrespectful to the dead – it's the best way to honor her memory that we've come up with. This is why we are now trekking to her grave in the middle of March with a bag of decorations we've collected up over time. It's Cheesecake Day. One of her finest, if you ask me. Since it is one of our favorites, it is one of the ones we decorate her grave for. There's not much in the way of cheesecake decorations, surprisingly. We have a framed picture of a giant slice of strawberry cheesecake (her favorite) that Mark took, which we put on top of her headstone. And when we are done, we head off to the Life for cheesecake.

* * *

"I know it sounds terribly cliché, but, I never really lived until I was dying." 

"I'm terrified. I'm leaving behind a three-year-old son. I don't want to die. But I don't get a choice now."

"The drugs are what killed me, and now they're the only thing keeping me from killing myself."

Mark has clip after clip and interviews galore from members of Life Support. Reels of the stuff. Mimi, Collins and I go regularly, and sometimes Mark will come to film for his documentary. You can tell when the clip is from by who is in it. The earliest ones have Gordon and Sue and Angel in them, the later ones don't. People come, people go. Some just stop coming, some check into and out of rehab, some die. Some are still here. I'm still here.

"I don't want people to see me as some queer druggie just because I'm sick."

"I've started to have nightmares about that damn incessant chirping of the AZT beeper. I swear that thing goes off every twenty minutes!" She's laughing. "Still, what can you do?"

"I got it from a bad blood transfusion. I used to think myself above everyone else here because I wasn't having dirty sex or sharing needles, but… I'm not. They're just people, like me."

I watch Mark watching the film and an almost unbearable sadness overtakes me. It's not like I got really close to any of them, but we were friends. We'd hang out, go for dinner together, and never feel awkward taking our pills. Mark, Collins and I attend all the funerals now. It's heartbreaking to know that anyone in that room could be gone in a week, a month, and yet it's so comforting to have so many people on your side, who understand. Of course, no one understands anyone completely – we all have our stories, our reasons, our methods of coping. But it's enough just to have people to talk to. Even Mark can't comprehend the absolute terror of knowing that cutting yourself while making dinner could kill your worrisome, overprotective best friend.

"I'm donating my body to science when it's over. God knows I was a waste of space in this life, but maybe I can at least be of some help post-mortem."

"I had to see my baby die from this damned disease, I gave it to her. Her daddy gave it to me. After that, knowing it'll be over soon is more comforting than scary."

"I refuse to be pessimistic. The AZT is giving me many extra years and there's no reason to waste them moping around my shithole of an apartment. I'm going skydiving. I'm going surfing. I'm going to Cancun. Want to come?"

* * *

The bathtub dreams are the worst. Sometimes it's April, and she's blaming me as she bleeds. Sometimes it's Mark. Sometimes it's me. 

I won't cry in front of Roger. I won't cry in front of anybody. God, I miss them…

**

* * *

This is where it ends. **

I'm so scared. Don't leave me, Rog. What am I supposed to do? I wouldn't touch my camera again for the rest of my life if I could have another day, another hour. Don't leave me…

Mark, I'm scared. Don't leave me, please, stay here. As long as I can see you, I'm still alive. Oh God, what I wouldn't give for another month. Please, just one more month, I can't do this. I can't die, not here, not now… it's too soon.

* * *

"Mark, it's just a little cough! I'll be fine, just give me some of that damn tea you always swear by and in a few days I'll be good as new. Promise." 

I sigh, trying not to show how scared I am right now. "You've been saying that for a week. It still hasn't gone away, or even gotten better. Just suck it up, you're going to the doctor whether you like it or not. If it's really nothing, then fine, you can say 'I told you so.'"

"I don't even feel sick! I'm just-" On cue he doubles over with a bout of chest-rattling coughs. "-coughing." He has the decency to look a little embarrassed. From there I have a little less trouble dragging him to the hospital with me. It's not like he's the only one who hates this place, anyway. But we have to go.

* * *

"Maaark…" he whines. "Why are you letting them keep me here? Can't I just take some meds and recover at home? This place is boring." I'm encouraged by the fact that he feels well enough to complain. 

"Sorry, Rog. Doctor's orders, you need to be kept for observation for a few days. In case the medicine doesn't work, or something like that happens. C'mon, let me get a few shots of you in that ever-so-attractive gown you've got there…" As long as we're joking around, it can't be that bad.

After only a few days though, I can see him changing physically. He's paler, if that's possible, and weaker. He's stopped complaining that he isn't sick, though he's still bored. At least the lesions haven't shown up yet. I'm sitting at the foot of his bed and he's sitting up as much as possible amid the tangle of wires and tubes. We are playing poker, gambling with Skittles. He was kicking my ass so badly that I had to get another bag just to stay in the game.

* * *

"Morning, bitches. Ah, Mark, you never do learn, do you? I thought after that one episode of strip poker you'd know better than to play cards with Roger." I can feel myself blushing, even though we're all grinning at the memory. I'm pretty sure there was Stoli involved in that escapade, too. At least, I hope I'd never agree to a sober game of strip poker. I tried to blame the alcohol on my crushing defeat, but I'm most definitely sober now and Roger still has all the Skittles. He'll give me the red ones though. 

"Hi, Collins!" Roger is glad to see a new face, we both are. We'd never tire of each other's company, but the tension of everything we aren't talking about is getting heavy. Collins leans down to give him a careful hug, then hugs me, too. Pulling a chair up to the side of the bed, he settles in for a long chat.

* * *

"I'm not supposed to die like this." 

I look up in surprise. I was pretty sure he'd fallen asleep an hour ago. He's been sleeping more lately. I'm worried. But now he's awake, and talking about…something. "What?"

"I'm supposed to die in an anonymous hotel room or something, I'm supposed to go out in a rock star's blaze of glory. Leaving behind an amazing legacy for many to aspire to, and a fortune for all my illegitimate children to live comfortably on for the rest of their lives. I'm supposed to leave fans and groupies and platinum albums.

"Instead, I'm slowly withering away in a disgusting-smelling hospital, leaving behind a few best friends and the man I love. And the only legacy I've got is on those films of yours."

"It could be worse." Don't cry. I grab his hand, which he has stretched out to me.

"Yeah… April had it worse."

"Lot's of people have it worse."

"Mark… you don't have to pine for me, or honor my memory forever or something. I don't want you to do that. Okay? Make your documentary, open a restaurant with Collins, get rich and get an apartment with legal and functioning heat. Fall in love again, live happily ever after. If anyone in the world deserves it, it's you."

"Stop," I whisper. "Don't. You're going to be okay. It's just a little cough, right?"

"Mark…Denial's not just a river in Egypt."

"Shut up." I used to tell him that, when he was making me crazy, claiming he didn't want Mimi, he didn't want to write any new songs, and other stupid shit. I smile slightly and motion for him to scoot over in the bed. Carefully adjusting the tubes and wires, I climb in next to him and he rests his head on my chest.

"I love you, Mark," he says, almost inaudibly.

"I'll always love you, Roger."

* * *

In two weeks he has gotten no better, nor any worse. Just more whiny. One evening, as I get up to take a shower – Collins demanded it as a condition for his return the next day – Roger grabs my hand. The restless, joking look that has been in his eyes is gone now, replaced with fear and pleading. 

"Mark, I want to go home."

"Come on, Roger, I know you're bored here, but-"

"No, Mark, _I want to go home_. They're not doing anything for me here! And if this is really to be the end, I don't want to spend it here. It's not fair, I at least need to eat one last bowl of Cap'n Crunch, play Musetta's Waltz one last time, sleep in our bed again. I don't want to die here. Besides, you fuss over me more than the doctors and nurses combined. Please, Mark."

Have I ever been able to say no to a begging Roger? I'm pathetic.

* * *

Walking in on Roger getting dressed sometime mid-June, I catch a glimpse of something that turns my insides to ice, then shatters them. 

"Roger, come here!"

He turns, confused. "What?"

"Come over here, lift up your shirt." He complies, reluctantly.

"I know, Mark. I just saw it." I reach out and lay my fingers next to the horrible purple mark which mars his chest. And suddenly, there is no denying anymore. Normally I'm quite happy with the sight of Roger's chest, but now I can feel the tears swelling in my eyes, because I know the kind of pain he's in for now, up until the end.

More of them begin to appear, on his chest, back, and one on his cheek, so far. Roger is acting like a different person, now. He used to be very averse to being filmed, not that that kept me from trying. The day before the one on his face appeared, I turned my camera on him once again, and for once he welcomed it. Looking straight into the lens, he said, "If I put on a good show, do I get a cookie?"

Then he starts insisting on being filmed. I think he's scared that he'll go without leaving any kind of mark on the world. So I set the camera up wherever we are, whether eating or sitting on the couch talking or lounging around our bedroom. Roger's the only person I can think of who still looks beautiful with KS lesions. His cough is back, with a vengeance.

* * *

He doesn't get out of bed anymore, except for rare and necessary occasions. He's too weak. I've reverted back to my habit of never leaving his side unless forced. After all, Collins is about twice my size. The camera is still set up on its tripod, as Roger insisted, filming his degeneration. I know I'll never watch any of these reels ever again, but at least they will be there. I know what people see: an ex-junkie-rocker, paying for his youthful stupidity and mistakes; his best friend, shaken from his naïve mindset too soon, too violently. I know what's really here, though: two scared boys trying to pretend that they aren't sleeping on a deathbed. 

My father had a heart attack, once. He was rushed to the hospital in an ambulance, and had to stay there for a week. Cindy and her kids were in a car wreck, my nephew was in a coma for eleven days. The car was unidentifiable after being wrapped around a tree and exploding. I got mugged my first week in New York, got left in a pool of my own blood in an empty alleyway. Maureen thought she was pregnant once, and I nearly went back to my parents at the thought of having to raise a child. I've never, ever been more terrified than I am right at this moment, watching my best friend of fourteen years and lover of not long enough die.

* * *

Soft hand in mine. Familiar hand. Warm hand. Cold. Falling. Mark…? Heavy. So tired. Cold… 

I'm going to be sick. Ouch, dry heaves. Haven't eaten anything to throw up. Think I'll just black out right here. Right now. Bad dream, bad dream, this is just a bad dream… Oh God, Roger, please. Roger? Roger! Roger, Roger, Roger! _Roger, wake up!_


End file.
